


It's Only Cold Without You

by what_on_io



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M, Post-Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warmth evades him, after Azkaban.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Cold Without You

It's too far into what is shaping up to be an unusually warm British summer for so many blankets to be necessary, Sirius thinks. It's the middle of the night, and he's heaped under four of Remus's ratty blankets and a spare duvet, as has somehow become customary. The spare room probably isn't so chilly - the window is closed, and there are no unfamiliar draughts wafting in from underneath the door or from the fireplace; not that the logic means anything to Sirius with numbness colouring his extremities blue. He's even curled his toes up under the innermost blanket, so when he tries to extract himself it isn't without struggle and a lot of heated curse words.

He isn't very well-versed on the long-term effects of prolonged Dementor exposure, but if he had to guess he'd say the icy feeling that prickles along his skin even now, when logic dictates he be enveloped by warmth, is a prime symptom. Azkaban had always been cold - the chill carried in over crashing waves, the scent of filthy inmates mingling with ocean brine to heighten the unpleasantness of sub-zero temperatures - but there had been a reason for it, there. The night patrol of Dementors brought with it its own sort of chill, of course, an icier variety than the kind drifting through the barred window from the hulking sea. Had he been too quick to explain the chill away?

Now, in the heat of Remus's cottage, blankets tucked up to his chin, Sirius wonders if perhaps he's broken beyond repair. He's woken clammy from another nightmare, a headache beginning to pulse between his temples from sleep deprivation, to find even though sweat pools in the arches of his feet, they still feel ice cold. One of the blankets has been tossed away in the midst of his dream-induced convulsions - he can see it lying beneath the window, tangled in a loose knot. He scrabbles blearily for his wand, left on the bedside table the night before and aims it in the general direction of the blanket.

" _Accio_." He's still shaky enough with the secondhand wand and distracted enough by his headache that it's too much of an effort to attempt the spell non-verbally. Thankfully the blanket sails into his waiting hands, and he tugs it over the others to form the last barrier of his cocoon.

It isn't much warmer.

He's shaking now, too tired to work out exactly what percentage of the tremors running through him are down to the cold, and how many from feeling so bloody _useless_ all the time. He wills his hopeless body to generate some kind of heat, curls in on himself until his knees are pressed flush against his chest with bony arms wrapped around them. He longs for Padfoot's fur, the only thing that got him through lonely nights in his cave, but Remus made up the bed fresh this morning and he probably wouldn't appreciate dog hair on clean sheets.

The old fireplace in the spare room Sirius is camped out in sparks an idea he isn't actually surprised his tired mind failed to conjure before - there's wood already laid out, and a fire might generate enough warmth to thaw a fraction of the icicles that seem to be covering his entire body. He's never thought to light it before, wary of going to sleep with flames in the grate, but it doesn't look like he'll be able to drift off again now anyway. Sluggishly, Sirius drags himself and the nearest blanket onto the floor, tugging the fabric tighter around his shivering form in a futile attempt to quell the tremors. The fire might not do him much good, but it can't hurt to try.

A flick of his wand followed by a murmured _incendio_ sends roaring flames instantly to the fireplace, blissful heat hitting his cheeks and dragging colour he long thought he'd never see again into his face. The relief is instantaneous, and he's so distracted by the warmth of it that he doesn't realise that the old wand has dropped a trail of embers onto his blanket. The glowing amber springs into flames, quickly spreading - Sirius can feel them by his feet, but for a few seconds he's too shocked to move. He watches, dumbfounded, as fire licks up the blanket towards his ankles, and manages only a weak cry of pain before he shoves the sheet away. "Shit. Shit!" No spell is springing to mind, and all Sirius can think to do is run to the bathroom to fetch water. He waves his wand uselessly at the pool of fabric and fire that has landed pathetically by the bed, only succeeding in adding to the building inferno.

He's about to dart into the hall for a bucket when he collides with Remus in the doorway. There's a stilted moment of hush, the proverbial calm before the storm, and then Sirius is gesturing to the fire and saying " _Shit_!" only to emphasise his point, and simultaneously trying to shove past Remus to reach the bathroom. Remus only looks faintly bemused, which strikes Sirius as odd since it's _his_ cottage being set alight, after all, and then he tugs his own wand from the pocket of the dressing gown he's wearing to spray jets of water from the tip. The flames are extinguished within seconds, leaving only a dripping bedspread and sodden floorboards in their wake.

"Are you all right, Sirius?" Remus asks. The amused smile slips from his face when he notices Sirius's own mouth drooping at the corners, because he's so fucking _useless_ , taking up Remus's space and eating food neither of them can really afford, and setting fire to the cottage and forgetting simple fire-extinguishing charms. He _hates_ that he doesn't have his own wand anymore just as much as he hates the memory and proficiency for magic that years in Azkaban have stolen from him; he hates waking from nightmares every night; he is consumed with so much loathing and guilt and shame that it's a wonder it's all able to squeeze into his gaunt frame.

Sirius doesn't realise he's crying until he feels the soft pads of Remus's fingers wiping tears from his cheeks. It's such a tender gesture, and not one that he even slightly deserves, that it only brings another bout of tears to the forefront. Remus's arms go around his shoulders to guide him gently to the damp bed, strong and supportive behind his back. He would sag into Remus's touch if only his mind would let him, but the injustice of the movement might just be the thing to finish him off. Sirius doesn't dare take comfort in his friend's touch, because Remus is no longer his, and to leech support from the other man would be another traitorous evil on Sirius's behalf, after so many months of doubt and distrust that Remus didn't deserve one bit. The memory of them sharing a bed during those last few weeks, as close to opposite edges of the mattress as gravity would allow, is the only part of their relationship that Sirius has been allowed to relive in prison. Gone are the tender morning kisses, the sleepy embraces as they slipped into slumber, gone too is the image of a sun-dappled Remus singing off-key melodies in the kitchen while he attempted to make breakfast, the feeling of _togetherness_ after returning from a shared Order mission. Somehow, being here in Remus's arms like this brings most of it flooding back. While he's grateful for the memories, Sirius isn't sure regaining them is completely for the best - it's all he can do not to dip his nose into Remus's hair and inhale the scent of him, the scent he knows will be musky with a hint of that bloody chocolate that Remus loves - _Merlin_ , he's wanted nothing more than to touch him since he arrived, dripping wet, at his front door-

"Shh, Sirius. It's all right." Remus is murmuring into his ear, Sirius registers briefly. His arms are still around him, his face pressed into Sirius's matted hair, and how Remus can find it in himself to offer Sirius comfort after everything...

"I don't deserve you," he blurts without intending for the words to pass his lips. A silent moment passes between them, before Remus cocks his head to one side, so much of his younger self contained in the gesture it sends Sirius’s heart aflutter. So much has passed between them, so much time, and now neither of them are the men they used to be, the men they thought they would be forever. The time and the pain of fourteen years apart has aged them both, but having Remus give him that thoughtful look again Sirius would swear they were still teenagers.

"I thought we established our mutual forgiveness in the Shack, Sirius," Remus muses, although they both know that brief exchange wasn't enough, could never be enough to encapsulate everything they meant to say to one another.

Sirius intends to say that Remus had reason enough to think _him_ a traitor - all the evidence was stacked against him, after all - but that his distrust of his partner was unfounded and unfair. There's so much of it to say, to explain, that it sends another wave of pain through Sirius's temples (and, it seems, his whole body) and he can do nothing but shrink further into Remus's arms. A violent shudder goes through him, sounding rather like a sob, and then they are both holding onto each other with all their might.

“You’ve been punished enough, Sirius. Too much,” Remus breathes, barely audible if not for the silence that has settled between them. He doesn’t miss Sirius’s grateful blink up at him, and reaches to stroke a reassuring hand through long ebony hair. They haven’t spoken much of Azkaban, of course - Sirius must not be pushed to talk about those twelve years, and Remus knows any attempt will be met with hostility. Still, it isn’t difficult to infer, not when he can see the shadows in Sirius’s hollow eyes, the way he jumps at slight movements. He thinks that perhaps Sirius would tell him now, in the maddened half-stupor he’s in, but practicality wins out over a need for information, and Remus has never been cruel, “Come on. You can't stay in here, the bed's ruined," he says gently after a few more minutes have passed, when Sirius's wracking cries have settled and he is composed enough to wipe his face roughly with the sleeve of his borrowed pyjamas.

"Sorry," he half-hiccoughs, thinking of the fresh bed he'd intended to protect. Seems he's always done a useless job of that, protecting. He can't be trusted with a bedspread, why should he be trusted with Harry, either- 

Remus seems to have resigned himself to the role of comforter, and simply rocks Sirius through the next bout of tears. He's never seen anyone cry this much, let alone his once confident - _cocky_ , his mind supplies - best friend, but he rather thinks Sirius deserves the show of emotion after more than a decade of bottling it up in Azkaban. It takes a long time, but eventually Sirius is lucid enough to be helped out of the room and down the upstairs hall to Remus's own bedroom. Remus remembers the blankets at the last second, turns to levitate the messy pile behind them with a flick of his wand. Once he has Sirius settled back against a pillow he arranges them neatly over his friend's vulnerable form, tucking the covers around him the way he knows Sirius likes. He briefly considers going to sleep on the sofa - it's been a long time since they've shared a bed, after all, and how can he know that Sirius won't reject any semblance of an advance - but he remembers how useless he feels hearing the other man cry out from a nightmare two rooms away, and slips under the duvet beside him.

"You never used to want this many blankets," Remus muses, "You were never comfortable without your feet sticking out of the duvet and your arms under the pillow, searching for a cool spot." He isn't sure how the recollection of a fond memory will be received, but Sirius grins and Remus can feel him turning slightly in the darkness to face him. Remus himself is lying ramrod straight on his back, staring up at the ceiling with its off-white, peeling plaster and damp patches. A traitorous part of his mind imagines snaking an arm around Sirius's waist, clutching him close enough to breathe the scent of him in, but a more rational part of him thinks better of it.

"I'm always cold," Sirius says, “Dementors will do that to you.” Another shiver runs through Sirius, this time from the mere mention of the cold that possesses him, and Remus finally succumbs to temptation or habit, and tugs Sirius closer to him. He's practically skin and bone still, despite Remus's efforts over the last few days to feed him up; so different from the boy he once was that it's disconcerting.

"Is this all right?" he asks after a beat, when Sirius doesn't move. They're both painfully still, and Remus's arm is trapped under the mountain of blankets on his friend's side, but somehow it isn't uncomfortable.

"Mmm," Sirius agrees in a murmur, tendrils of early slumber colouring his tone, "Better. You're so _warm_ , Moony." There's something akin to genuine delight in his tone now, and a shiver that has nothing to do with cold passes through him. Remus tightens his hold a fraction, feels Sirius respond in kind by reaching out to splay his fingers across a hipbone, icy fingers thawing a little from Remus's body heat.

It feels so much like a dream, bathed in half-moonlight that streams in from the bay window, with Sirius finally safe in his bed again, that Remus barely thinks it through before he murmurs, "I love you, Padfoot. I never stopped." He isn't sure whether the confession stems from Sirius's obvious need for reassurance, or from the desperation of the past few minutes, but the words ring true nonetheless. Sirius stiffens for a moment, and Remus feels his shaky exhale against his shoulder, worries he's crossed a line.

"I didn't stop, either. Not even when... during the war. I felt guilty for it, that I might love a traitor-" his voice breaks on the last word but he ploughs ahead anyway, "-but I didn't stop loving you." Another silence, only shared breaths heating the air between them, and then Sirius continues, "I'm so glad it wasn't you, Remus."

"I'm glad it wasn't you," Remus echoes, reaching to twine their fingers together. It's so easy to say what needs to be said now, in the darkness, that Remus feels like he could conquer anything.

A smile tugs at Sirius's lips, illuminated in the moonlight, and he says, "I feel a lot warmer, now." They can both put it down to comfort, or the happiness that has somehow become a tangible thing between them in salvaging the pieces of a relationship they thought long broken. If Remus were to squint he’d believe the fractures almost invisible, healed over. Sirius has never felt further removed from the clutches of Azkaban - if a horde of Dementors were to turn up he'd give them a one fingered salute _and_ a run for their money with a Patronus, even with his rubbish wand. He snuggles further into Remus's shoulder, places soft kisses on the skin there, feels them dropped in return to his own scarred flesh. Assurances, promises of love and reciprocated affection pass in whispers between them, and later Remus will be there if he wakes from another nightmare, to hold him until his eyes lose their wild, startled look, to pepper kisses along a forehead damp with perspiration.

Tomorrow, when the sun has properly risen, Remus will find his lover has thrown all but one blanket off the bed, and his right foot sticking out from under the duvet.

All will be well.


End file.
